The Ecstasy of Mr Holmes
by Totally-Out-Of-It
Summary: Aspiring doctor John Watson finds himself distracted from his studies by a school outcast with a habit of getting himself killed. With his new dorm mate a drug addict sociopath with a history of boredom, how will he make it through to graduation? slash
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but I do own this particular world and this particular idea.

A/N: I heard from a fan that school AUs tend to crash and burn in this fandom. I'm prepared to take that challenge.

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><p><span>Chapter 1<span>

Date: June 15th. 8:11 am.

The following is a recording of the past two years of the life of Medical Student John Watson. Details will be written down to the best legitimacy and skill possible, no withholding evidence. The following events are true and factual to the best knowledge of all individuals involved, with the possible exception of Mr. Holmes. The validity of the happenings is documented in audio and written format through interviews, emails, and letters from the characters involved. Any attempt to discredit will be taken as a serious allegation and properly contested.

This is the Ecstasy of Mr. Holmes. Begin assessment.

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><p>For John Watson, the day began like most in his pre-med studies. He woke up from a dream about a disease infecting everyone in a hospital while he ran around trying to find help with no success, screaming out names he forgot as soon as he left the dreams. He went in the bathroom and washed his face, brushed his teeth, and used the bathroom. After that, he stepped into the shower for a nice wake-up call. The steam made the mirror fog up, and he wiped a streak free for him to use afterward. Choosing an outfit and brushing his hair came next. Then he spent a good six minutes sizing himself up in the mirror, deciding if he could take himself seriously this morning before he tried unleashing himself on the rest of the world.<p>

Following his bathroom habit, John grabbed a bagel from the fridge and toasted it until it was hot. He smeared a layer of cream cheese on either side and then smashed them together to eat like a sandwich while he got ready to go. His bag was packed from the night before, as it always was, and he slung it over his shoulder without hesitation. He kicked on his shoes, locked his front door, and was off to the bus stop before he could even finish his breakfast. It felt so routine that it was almost… boring.

The bus ride was average, twenty or so tired and cranky bodies sitting too close together on their morning commute. John did his best to ignore everyone and not draw attention to himself at the same time. He cast his gaze, instead, out the window to watch the world pass by. It didn't take long for the bus to pass by an all too familiar spot, one that John tended to give too much attention to. It was just an apartment building, much like John's, with dark bricks and a classic-style sign. As the bus came upon it, the main door opened and out stepped a pair of men, both with dark hair. One had curls while the other's hair was slicked back. Odd. Usually the one with curls was alone. They seemed to be bickering.

Despite the fight, John took comfort in this one other piece of his everyday complacency. It was like clockwork, the dark haired man stepping out into the world right when John's bus passed by. It was almost as if he knew, but even if he did, it wasn't like he was doing it just to give John a sense of stability… another trustworthy, dull piece of every repeat morning. Yet despite the redundancy, John found he looked forward to this part. It was probably because he had no control over this. One day would come when the man didn't come out on time or came too early, and John wouldn't see him. While he apologized to a woman who'd kicked him in the ankle as she passed, John wondered what he would do if that day ever came. Would he even be able to concentrate on the rest of his day?

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><p>"Summer's almost up," Mike said, slurping some coffee and staring off at a group of young women on the other side of the food court.<p>

"Yep," John answered, skewering his teriyaki chicken. Mike glanced at him and then back to the ladies.

"You find a new roommate yet?" he asked and his eyes darted off somewhere into the crowds.

"Nope. But even if I had, there's no guarantee that the extra room hasn't been claimed already. I guess I'll just have to put up with whoever they give me," John said, getting a cheek-full of rice.

"Yeah, but it'd all be better if you could just pick someone. I'd put in a good word for him at the office, if you'd find someone. I may not be in charge, but I do help organize the new arrivals from time to time." Mike took another large drink from his coffee and set it gently on the table.

"Trust me, Mike. No one wants to be roommates voluntarily with a pre-med student… especially one with a habit like mine. I'm not going to find anyone on my own, so you all might as well just pick one for me already." John groaned and mercilessly stabbed the Styrofoam plate his food used to inhabit.

Mike shrugged. "Alright. We're doing the final sweep on Friday, so you still got two days to find someone you like, if you like."

John snorted and shook his head, but occupied his mouth with his soda so he wouldn't make any upsetting comments. Lunch was his only down time in the summer. Usually he and Mike talked about sports or news or women. Why he was suddenly interested in John's ability to find a roommate was curious, but John didn't push it. He had bigger tests to worry about for tomorrow. A roommate was just an afterthought.

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><p>"Afternoon, Doctor Watson," a cherry flavored voice greeted as John slipped through an 'authorized personnel only' door. John shook his head and smiled.<p>

"I'm not a doctor yet, Molly," he reminded and set his jacket over the back of his assigned chair.

"But you are the lead pre-med student in the clinic," Molly said. "You can tell what kind of help someone needs almost before they say it!"

"I'm not that good. It's just medical observations, and this is just a school affiliated clinic. Now who do we have in today?" John asked, shifting the subject away from himself. Molly was always a bit too perky for him, a bit too flirty. They were working at a school affiliated walk-in clinic with people that had issues ranging from chemical burns from science experiments to alcoholism to drug addiction to slightly-too-serious-for-home-care paper cuts. Molly struck John as one of those women who was attracted to the broken types, the ones who needed help. Good God, was John glad he wasn't one of those… in male form, of course.

"Well there's a Sara in the back corner waiting to see someone about a rather nasty burn on her hand she claims she got while cooking. She's only been here for about three minutes… and everyone else has been seen," Molly said, checking the sign-in sheet.

"Very good. Thank you. I'll take care of Sara. You handle anyone new who comes in the door." John slipped on a white coat, standard dress for the clinic, and stepped out into the waiting room to see his first 'patient.'

Sara saw him coming and stood to greet him, with her uninjured hand, but just before their hands could touch the door swung open and two men entered loudly.

"You have no right," one with curly dark hair was growling and tugging against the grip of the taller, older man with slicked back hair.

"You're record for attending school is deplorable," the taller one said.

"Rubbish. I was just heading there," the curly one said.

"Yes, and they now hold class on the couch of your apartment in the off season, do they?" the tall one asked. "I don't quite think so, Sherlock. Not this time. You're going to get help. Now." And while his voice stayed level, it held the threat. The curly one let out a whine of a noise and was dragged toward the front desk where Molly watched with shocked eyes.

John pressed his lips together and tried to look away, but he couldn't. It was the man who stepped out of his apartment like clockwork whenever the bus passed. Sherlock, was it? What an intriguing name, John thought. It was almost as intriguing as how he managed to step outside right on schedule every day. John had never seen him so close up before. He was taller than John had previously expected, his hair just a tad shorter. Maybe he'd just gotten it trimmed. He was dressed in fine clothes, like he was on his way to a job interview, but they were rumbled from sleep or a struggle. John suspected the struggle was with this older man.

The two were not getting on very well at all. The tall one was trying to tell Molly that Sherlock needed to see someone about going into rehab, but Sherlock kept interrupting with a bored expression and a helpful 'he's an idiot. Don't listen to anything he says' or an 'I don't need to be here.' When the taller man turned in annoyance to Sherlock, the curly haired man just gave him a blank look.

"Sherlock, stop being so stubborn. You need help!" he said, raising his voice for the first time since their arrival. Sherlock bristled.

"I'm not an addict!" he yelled back.

"Excuse me," John spoke up, stepping up and pushing the two apart. The taller one looked a bit put off, but Sherlock just looked bored again. "I'm sorry, but we really don't allow fighting to take place in the building."

"Good. We'll just leave then," Sherlock grunted, giving John a quick overview with his eyes.

"Sherlock," the taller man scolded. John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and looked at the taller man.

"Also, I apologize, but we can't give help to someone who doesn't want it. We can't hold him or administer support without the consent of the person… unless they're a danger to themselves or others," John explained.

Sherlock was staring right at him now, but his eyes would flicker to where John's hand rested on his shoulder. John's mind said it was a hint that Sherlock didn't like the contact, but he kept his hand there a moment longer than necessary anyway. A piece of his heart raced from the momentary contact. This was the mysterious bus man, and here he was in John's place of volunteering. After his hand connected with his side again, he noticed Sherlock's eyes stuck to him regardless and the other man's eyes flickering between the two of them and Molly.

"But he is a danger to himself," the man insisted and somehow sounded like a bureaucrat. "He's a drug addict. He's ruining his health and his schooling."

"Oh shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, but his eyes barely glanced away from John.

"Sorry, but if he's not suicidal then he's not technically classified as a danger to himself," John said, having to agree with Sherlock internally. Sherlock didn't show any outward signs of being a drug addict. He wasn't overly pale or sick. He wasn't shaking or seeming nervous. Beyond that, John would prefer not to think his only interesting piece of routine was a drug addict.

"This is ridiculous. What kind of rehab clinic doesn't do rehab?" the man known as Mycroft grumbled. He flexed his hand as though he were used to holding something, perhaps a cane, but had forgotten it somewhere or no longer used it. "Fine. Sherlock, if you want to waste your life being high, be that way for now. However, I will keep an eye on you, and I will bring the police into matters if I must."

"Oh go back to starting wars, Mycroft," Sherlock groaned out with a hint of distaste. "And don't worry, Mummy. I'm going to class."

"Shut up, Sherlock. You're only a genius in your head." And Mycroft was out the door again. Sherlock hesitated only a moment or two and then clapped John on the shoulder. He rubbed his hands together and made for the door as well.

"Thank you. You've all been a big help. I hope to never see this place again. Have a nice day," he said. He turned around, gave a wink to John, and slipped out the door.

Silence pervaded the room for several seconds in which the tiny clock in the room could actually be heard ticking. Finally John pulled himself from his shock, cleared his throat, and turned to Sara again. Molly jumped and turned back to the computer screen, flushing with embarrassment.

"I apologize for that. How can I help you?" John asked. Sara began a tale of discovering a love for cooking, which would have all been good and interesting if John's mind hadn't been on the curly haired man who apparently attended the same school as him and had somehow slipped a twenty into his chest pocket as thanks without anyone noticing.

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><p>If there are any pre-meds students reading: I'm going to do my best to keep the story legit and also smooth. If you have any insight into say scheduling, work load, etc, that would be most helpful. Thank you! Reviews and Opinions are love!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Someone asked me where this story took place – US or UK. I replied that it didn't matter. I hold by that. This is a fanfic. I'm going to try to keep up with the British terms and whatnot, but how the school works, the customs, will all be from my memory of British television shows and will most likely not conform to the majority of British lifestyle… or be blatantly American. I apologize if this makes reading the story hard for anyone.

Anyway - Finally back for chapter 2! This story is being posted simultaneously with two other fics so sorry for the delay. Enjoy!

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><p>Chapter 2<p>

The sun was holding onto the trees and trying to fight back its bedtime when John stepped outside, shrugging on his jacket for the last time that day. His shoulders ached as they usually did after a day of clinic work and hunching over journals writing lecture notes. Usually John would head straight for the bus, eager to get home and relax, but today he hesitated. It's not important why. Maybe he had to tie his shoe. Maybe he had stared too long at the glowing outline of clouds and trees. That's not the point. The point was that he hesitated in his usual routine, something odd in and of itself.

"John!" Molly's voice caught him just before he moved to head off. He turned to greet her with his usual smile.

"Molly. Hey. You need something?" he asked, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"N-Not really. I just saw you and thought we could walk together," the other nurse said. "You're heading for the bus stop, right?"

"Yeah… But I didn't know you rode the bus." John's eyes glanced down to Molly's hands. She had moved like she meant to grab his, but he'd been preemptive and put them in his pockets. He'd let it happen once, but never again. He didn't like Molly at all outside of a colleague and he'd like to keep it that way for her as well.

"I'm heading to a mate's place," she explained. "So have you seen that guy around before?"

John rolled his shoulders as they started to walk. He cast his gaze up to the sky and held back a sigh. Molly was crushing on one of the patients again. Oh God. "Which guy?"

"You know – the skinny one with the black, curly hair who was dragged in yesterday while you were talking to Sarah," Molly explained. How could she even remember Sarah's name? Sarah had only been there for five minutes. Then John had patched her up, given her some medicine and sent her off. She hadn't been back or even called.

"Sherlock?" John asked, glancing down from the darkening sky. Molly beamed.

"Oh wow! You remember his name! I had a feeling the other guy said it, but I couldn't really remember. It was only said once, you know, and they didn't sign in at all. You have such a great memory, John. I wish-"

"Breathe, Molly," John reminded. Molly blushed and nodded quickly. She took a slow breath and laced her fingers together in front of her.

"Yes. Well, I thought he was rather handsome. Have you ever seen him around?" Molly asked.

"No. Never," John lied. He wasn't about to share the information about where Sherlock was every morning like clockwork. He wasn't about to share that moment of his routine. It felt like it was special, and Molly was trying to invade on it. "Listen, Molly. Please don't try to flirt with him. You do remember what happened with the last guy you picked up from the waiting room, don't you?"

"Y-Yes… Died of a drug overdose," she murmured.

"With a note telling you to switch to decaf," John added. "So… go find some nice guy in a bookshop or something. Stop tagging after the broken ones."

"Yes. Of course. You're right," Molly agreed in the same small tone. "I'll stop thinking about him."

"Good. Now, are you really headed for the bus, or were you just trying to talk to me?" John asked, trying to sound kind and caring.

"Talk, I guess. Sorry," Molly said. She took a deep breath and smiled softly. "Thank you for not being gentle with me. I'll see you on Monday, then." And she turned and left for her car in the opposite direction.

Now not only had John delayed on his own, but walking and talking always slowed down the process. He'd be lucky if he caught his usual ride. With a short sigh, John turned back toward the bus stop… and froze. There, sneaking past the last building before the bus, was a pack of four large black men, and several paces trailing them was none other than Sherlock. Off handedly, John thought he'd managed to send Molly away just in time. In the front of his mind, John wondered why Sherlock was following the obvious gang. He didn't look anything like them. He couldn't be part of their group.

No. It wasn't any of John's business. If he ignored the oddity, he could walk past that building and to his bus. He could see it pulling up to the stop now. He could still make it.

"Damn it," John cursed and jogged off in the direction he'd seen Sherlock go.

This was baseless, this instinct to run after him. Still, John couldn't help himself. Something about Sherlock drew his curiosity, drew his interest. John ignored plenty of odd things in his life in the effort to be normal, to focus on his studies and work hard, yet somehow Sherlock broke that. Even the tiniest possibility that Sherlock might be getting into trouble was enough to drag John from his usual path and into some unknown, unfamiliar back alley toward the great possibility of a gang fight.

When John got to the mouth of the alley, he saw no one in it, but he was certain he'd seen Sherlock disappear down it. There were no doors to the alley, but there were a few fire escapes. Looking up, John saw no one climbing. He could suddenly hear lots of yelling, though.

Following his ears, John hurried down the alley to the other end, which opened to a spacious, shapeless area hidden behind all the surrounding buildings. It was almost a circle and not quite a square, and all the windows visible were covered with thick blinds and curtains. Even the remaining sun rays were blocked out by the buildings, and the only light came from two dim bulbs that were positioned across from each other on either side of the opening. They cast an orange-like glow on the ground.

The group John had seen was standing with their backs to him. A different group stood facing them with six members, all as large or larger than the four John had seen first. Both groups were yelling about spies and police, but then they all fell silent. There, in the middle of it all, was Sherlock. He had his hands raised up on both sides to tell the gangs to be quiet, and he was speaking in a calm voice.

"I'm not the police," he was saying. "And there's no reason for me to tell them what you're doing."

"Damn right," one of the other group was saying. "And I ain't takin no chances."

John's heart sped as he saw the gun pulled into view. Sherlock just smirked at it. Then he opened his mouth and said "A bullet trail and another body. How boring."

The gunshot rang out at the same time as John's voice found its way up his throat and he managed to call out 'Hey!' just as the gun fired. Both gangs panicked and the leaders shouted out for the members to scatter. They must have thought John was the police, especially after thinking Sherlock was a spy, and before John could think of saying or doing anything more, the lot was empty. No one came to the windows to check on the source of the shot.

John cursed under his breath and hurried over to Sherlock, who was lying still on the ground. There was blood pooling slowly on his left side, visible despite his dark clothing and the shadows of the growing night.

"Sherlock," John said as he bent over the other man. Sherlock stared up at him curiously, noticeable by the inclination of his eyebrows. "Look, don't worry. I have ambulances on speed dial. I'll have you to the hospital in no time." He was already putting his mobile to his ear.

Sherlock's expression relaxed into complacency and he turned his head away. He sighed out a rough breath, almost as though he were annoyed. "Hospitals. So dull." And he closed his eyes.

"What? Whoa! No no. Keep your eyes open, Sherlock. Right. Just keep your eyes on me. I don't know how bad the wound is, so just stay conscious," John ordered. He turned his head to look at the alley as someone on the other end of the call picked up. Without introduction, John ranted off the location, specifically, and hung up the phone. When he looked back at Sherlock, the pale man's eyes were barely there, barely open. "You ok? What am I talking about? Of course you're not okay. But you will be. Besides, you can't go and die already. We've only just officially met. Well, maybe not officially. I only know your name. I'm John, by the way. John Watson."

And for the next three minutes, John ranted in circles around his words, talking about what would happen once they got to the hospital, about how the wound looked to him, and about the importance of names and introductions – anything for Sherlock to focus on. It must have worked, because when the medics found them, Sherlock was still watching him carefully, his eyes staying on John even as he was loaded into the ambulance. John hopped in too, having already missed his bus and finding this much more important, and the ambulance peeled off into the night.

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><p>John felt his whole body relax, his world going into a beautiful, dark place. Then his head slipped off his hand and he jolted awake in his chair. For a moment he panicked. Had he fallen asleep in class? That was inexcusable! But then he took in the pale green and bright white that decorated the walls, the reclining chair he sat in, the stocky bed in the center, and the machines attached to the walls. Definitely not a classroom.<p>

"Right. Hospital," he groaned sleepily.

"Exactly where you fell asleep," a sassy voice confirmed. John looked up to find a dark skinned woman leaning in the doorway. She glanced from John to the bed, where Sherlock still slept, and then back to John. "Come on then," she said and left the room.

Grunting and rubbing his eyes, John stood and shook out his limbs as he walked after her. He felt old. The chair had aged him somehow. But then he was in the hall with the dark lady, and she was looking at him like he was a petulant child. Suddenly John felt small and uneasy.

"Can I help you?" John asked.

"How are you related to Sherlock Holmes?" she asked. Her hands were on her hips, resting the weight of her arms between her thumbs and forefingers. She was dressed professionally, but her stance was haughty.

"Hm? Oh. I'm not. I mean, I'm not family. Is there a problem?" The staff hadn't said anything to him last night when he'd asked to stay, but he was technically breaking policy by staying when he wasn't related. Maybe this was the hospital manager?

"I'm not hospital staff," the woman answered, guessing his inner dilemma. "I'm with the police, Sergeant Sally Donovan, and I just thought I'd warn you. If you're here because you saved his life, I suggest you not get any more involved."

"With… with Sherlock?" John asked, pointing back to the room. "Why not?"

"He's dangerous," Donovan said simply, dropping her arms and taking a more relaxed stance. "He's suicidal, you know. You hang around him, it'll be you who's shot next time, and he won't call the ambulance like you did for him."

"Um… thanks?" John tried. "I wasn't planning on following him into anymore gang fights."

"Good. Better keep to that. It'll save your life," Donovan said and turned to walk away.

"Hang on," John called her attention back. "Why do the police know him so well?" Or maybe it was just Sally Donovan?

Sally shrugged noncommittally. "He's our resident freak. Every once in awhile he helps out on cases. Most of the time, he's just creepy. I hope we don't have to cross paths again. Do stay away from Sherlock Holmes… if you know what's good for you."

And just like that, she left, like a creepy prophecy in a movie. John could hear her high heels clicking on the floor even after she turned the corner. Shaking his head, John re-entered the hospital room. Sherlock Holmes. Now he had a full name, and so did Sherlock if he'd been conscious enough to remember anything John said.

When John stepped into the room, he let out a tiny chuckle at the memory of his rambling, but stopped abruptly when he saw that he was being watched by the most translucent eyes he'd ever seen. It was Sherlock, lying on the bed and staring at him as he'd done the night before. John cleared his throat.

"Awake then? You want me to call the nurse?" he asked. Sherlock groaned.

"God no," he said. "Not for this scratch. I wouldn't have even called the ambulance." Well he sounded fine. Sherlock leaned his head back into the pillows and sighed dramatically. "Damn, Mycroft is going to have my head for this."

"So just don't tell him," John suggested.

"Impossible. He already knows and is undoubtedly on his way here," Sherlock replied flatly. Then he turned his head to look at John and narrowed his eyes a little. "Who are you?"

"John Watson."

"No. Not that. I knew that," Sherlock said. "I mean why are you still here? Do I know you?"

"Well, I saved your life last night, and I'm the leading student doctor at the school abuse clinic," John explained, taking his seat back in the recliner chair.

"Oh God. You work with addicts," Sherlock whined. John knit his eyebrows.

"Not only. We take normal patients too," he defended. "And what about you? You're an addict. You should be grateful for the clinic."

"Who says I'm an addict?" Sherlock asked, his tone suddenly serious and heavy. He was watching John carefully, like the med-student may suddenly attack. "Did Mycroft tell you that?"

"Your arm told me that," John said matter-of-factly. He motioned to Sherlock's elbow, which was visible in his hospital shift. "It doesn't take a med-student to recognize the dots there. I convinced the doctor not to do anything about it, because honestly it's your call. Not that I agree with it, but still."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a moment, and then they shot open wide as though an epiphany had struck him.

"You're the doctor I donated a twenty to," he said with sudden recognition and energy.

"Hang on. 'Donated?' What do I look like, a charity?" John asked, doing his best not to pout. Sherlock pushed himself up, winced, and fell back onto the bed. He chuckled at himself, and John thought he was a bit crazy.

"Oh don't be like that. I did it out of thanks, and that's more than most people I know can brag," Sherlock said. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "So why are you still here? Feeling responsible for the addict?"

"No." John pushed himself up from the chair and rolled his shoulder. He stepped up next to the bed and looked down at the dark haired mess lying there. "This may come as a shock to you, but I was actually concerned you might die from being shot."

It seemed the statement actually stunned Sherlock, though his expression didn't give much away. He looked John over with miniscule eye movements and his forehead knit from the effort of his thoughts. John breathed slowly, strangely calm under the analyzing stare, and waited for Sherlock to speak next.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Sherlock finally asked, and he seemed genuinely confused.

"Like what?" John asked, rubbing his cheeks.

"Like you feel sorry for me. It's not the drugs." Sherlock's pupils seemed to grow smaller than they were naturally as Sherlock tried to piece together the puzzle. John took a slow breath and shrugged.

"They tell me… you're suicidal," he admitted. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Ugh. Suicide. Suicide is so dull. Life is so much more complex. Murder. Murder is the best," he muttered.

"Excuse me?" John asked, looking disapprovingly down at his piece of odd routine.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not committing it. I meant solving it. Stop looking at me like that."

"Fine. How would you like me to look at you?" John asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the bed. At first, Sherlock seemed to honestly have no idea how to respond. He sort of stared at John as though the question's meaning had been lost on him. Then he frowned curiously.

"Disappointment over disapproving. Empathy over pity. Actually, I quite like your current look," he said.

"Irritated?" John said more than asked. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders as best he could.

"I think it's a great improvement from the others."

John groaned exasperatedly and rubbed his hand down over his face. He was pretty sure he preferred Sherlock when he had been an interesting constant in his daily routine. He'd been too curious about Sherlock, and now he got him full force. As they say, be careful what you wish for. Sherlock seemed constantly stuck between suspicious and sarcastic, and John wasn't sure which he preferred or which he could stand for long periods of time. Then he wondered why he was considering spending long periods of time with Sherlock. Hadn't he just told Sergeant Donovan that he didn't plan to hang around Sherlock?

"Do you still think I'm going to die?" the wounded man asked, regaining John's full attention. He sounded almost touched, though John wasn't sure why.

"No. The doctor said you'd recover fine last night, and you seem more than okay right now." John walked back to the chair and fingered his coat, hung over the side, for lack of anything better to do.

"Do I get the pleasure of your company for much longer?" and somehow John actually believed Sherlock meant every bit of that sentence. He seemed to be seriously enjoying this back and forth word war that was draining John.

"Sadly, no. I have a clinic to run most of the afternoon and a new dorm mate to plan for." Taking this turn in conversation as a great excuse for leaving despite the early hour, John picked his coat up and slipped it on.

"Getting a new dorm mate? Is it Sally Donovan?" Sherlock asked, and his lips twitched up into a hint of a smile. John couldn't help it, he smiled too.

"No," he said. "Definitely not. Actually, I'm not sure who I'll be getting this semester. I'm meeting him tomorrow."

"Ah. Move-in time for the new arrivals. That time already? Good Lord." Sherlock groaned and looked toward the windows where the morning sun was teasing birds.

For a few moments, neither spoke. Sherlock watched the birds and waited for John's inevitable departure. John's mind was going over and over completely useless information, part of which was the ever constant question of how Sherlock's mind functioned. Then all of a sudden, John snorted and let out a giggle, effectively catching Sherlock's attention from the outdoors.

"What?" he asked.

John shook his head and sighed. "What kind of cop wears high heels to work?" he asked, unable to stop smiling.

It took a moment, but then Sherlock was grinning as well, shaking his head and chuckling. "She's never been the smartest one in the force."

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><p>Counters wiped. Floors vacuumed. Beds made. Books organized. Dishes washed. Laundry cleaned. Dusting finished. The whole place was rather dull, but it shone brighter than it had all semester… or maybe even all year. John smiled proudly at his handiwork. His last roommate had been horribly messy, with no respect for sharing space in the main room. Hopefully he got what he requested this time – someone clean, someone quiet. His classes were crazy enough. He didn't need an annoying roommate to make matters worse. No frat boys.<p>

John nodded at the room and then grabbed a piece of paper off the magnet list on the fridge. Time to get some food in this place. His dorm mate would most likely have to buy his own food once he moved in, but John had a serious lack of his own food right now. His new dorm mate wasn't due for a few hours, so John had just enough time to pop out to the store and back.

Grabbing his keys, he headed for the stairs and down one level to the bottom floor. As he pushed open the door, he bumped into someone on their way in, who was a few inches taller than him, and dropped his keys. John muttered an apology as he bent to grab his key ring. The other man dismissed the topic in a regal tone and then vanished inside before John could even stand up straight again.

"Sod," John grumbled as he pocketed the keys and adjusted his jacket. What was someone with that kind of speech pedigree doing in school affiliated housing? He probably didn't have to worry about paying for classes at all. That kind of speech only came when you grew up in high society. And that guy had brushed John off like nothing. Didn't even apologize.

No. John shook his head. He shouldn't let himself be jealous of someone just because they had more money. He had fought for his position in this school, so he should feel proud. Jealousy would get him nowhere. Neither would bitterness. He'd probably never see that guy again anyway… Although he did sound familiar.

John shook his head again as he slipped into his car. Too bad there wasn't a bus to the store, or perhaps it was too bad John didn't live on campus and only need a car at all to go to the store.

Two hours later, John was stepping out of his car with three shopping bags and wondering what it was about shopping that always took so long even if you had a list and knew exactly what you wanted to get and where it was in the store. Up the stairs and to his apartment, he realized the door wasn't locked. Had his new dorm mate arrived while he was out? Had someone broken in?

John eased the door open and heard the sound of violin music coming from inside. Classical CDs? He stepped inside, his shopping rustling with his movements, and the violin cut off briefly before starting up again. No. That was someone playing the violin. John moved into the room, locking the door behind him, and moved into view of the main room.

"Sherlock?" he asked incredulously. There, dressed in a loose suit and perched on the arm of the couch, was Sherlock Holmes playing the violin. The music stopped again as Sherlock turned to face him, a smile crossing his lips.

"Ah, John," he greeted. "Welcome home."


	3. Chapter 3

So sorry for the slowness. I'm thinking updating three stories simultaneously will be too slow. I'm going to start updating whenever I get a chapter of any of them finished. That should speed things up… and only mildly confuse me when posting. Enjoy!

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><p>Chapter 3<p>

John dumped his shopping bags on the counter and gapped. There were books stacked vertically on the bookcase, with no thought to how they were blocking John's books from view. There was a box filled with manila files by the couch, and several similar files were leaning haphazardly on the nearby arm of the couch. A coat rack sat at the edge of the kitchen by the door, and a rather long and heavy looking coat was hung there with a scarf to accent it. Leaning over slightly, John saw the recently vacant second room of his apartment had been taken over and was now filled to bursting with random artifacts and clutter. Somewhere in there he could even spot a bed.

And sitting perched on the opposite arm of the couch from the files, dressed in a comfortable but fitted fine suit was Sherlock Holmes. His collared shirt was maroon, his slacks and jacket dark blue pinstriped. His violin hung securely from his fingers, as did the bow. He seemed completely at ease, and he smiled in greeting to John.

"Sherlock," John began slowly. "What are you doing in my apartment?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asked, setting his violin down. "I'm your new house mate."

"House mate?" John asked, skeptical. Sherlock waved a hand to swish away the idea.

"House mate, dorm mate, flat mate, roommate, whatever you want to call it," he said. He walked over to the counter with grace John hadn't really seen in him during their first two encounters at the college. He looked into one of the bags and smiled again. "Honey ham. Lovely."

"Hey hey," John interrupted, pulling the addict away from the counter. "Those are my groceries. They aren't for you. And what do you mean you're my new roommate? You found out I was getting one yesterday. I didn't even tell you which complex I lived in."

"The brilliant thing about having a brother like Mycroft is that he can arrange for anything to happen, and I do mean anything. As for where you live, that was hardly brain surgery. I simply looked into the only file with your name in the medical majors." Sherlock turned from the kitchen and went to the bookshelf, where he rifled through things and looked busy.

"You hacked into my academic file?" John asked. He held his hands up. "No. No, don't answer that. I don't want to know. Just tell me one thing, straight."

Sherlock's nimble fingers stopped shuffling through books and pages and slowly withdrew to his sides. He looked over at John and slid his hands into his pockets. His eyes shifted a bit, and then he nodded and looked right at John.

"Anything," he agreed.

"Why are you doing this?" John asked. Sherlock shrugged and headed for the couch.

"You said you needed a new dorm mate. This isn't technically a dorm, but I thought I was as good as any to fill the position. I've been needing a new place to live anyway. Your place seems nice enough." Sherlock lifted his violin back into his arms.

"Enough? Your brother can make anything happen and you chose 'nice enough' to live in? Look, I can't do this," John said, shaking his head and his arms. "This is my semester to get in the eyes of the med schools. I can't afford to have a drug addict, distracting roommate."

"Will you _please_ stop saying that," Sherlock's voice boomed out surprisingly loud. He looked upset, but then his eyes softened and he let out a low breath. "Test me for a month, John. If you can't handle me, then I'll move out and you can have the whole place to yourself. I'll ensure the rent is paid each month. But like it or not, my name is on the lease and it took nearly an hour to move all of this in here. So…"

Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, over to John by the bags. He stepped too close for normal personal boundaries, and he flicked his bow to the side. His eyes looked smug, testing.

"Can you handle me for a month?" he asked. He took a deep breath that nearly caused their chests to touch. "John Watson?"

"Oh God, yes," John was nearly begging before Sherlock could finish his name and before he could realize he was doing it. John sucked in his next breath, backed off from Sherlock, and shook his head. "I mean, of course I can. I can handle anyone for a month. It's just a month, yes?"

Sherlock looked curious and yet somehow pleased. "Unless you decide otherwise when the time comes."

John's heart pounded painfully in his chest. He had no doubts he was tinting red. He rubbed his brow with his sleeve and let out a heavy breath. He'd gone and half moaned out his consent. Why? Just because Sherlock had been so close he could feel him breathing? Just because he said John's name, close and in that deep voice of his? John mentally cursed himself and threw his eyes around the room as he stuttered for something to say. His eyes landed on the bookshelf and he froze.

"I-Is that a real human skull?" he asked. Sherlock's eyebrows peaked and he turned to check. Good. Attention off John.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock agreed, walking over to it. "Old friend of mine. Well… when I say 'friend'…" He trailed off and shot a smile and a wink over at John. John frowned and blushed deeper. Sherlock couldn't possibly mean what had just smacked John like an iron pillow.

"Right," John murmured, keeping his eyes low. "Excuse me. I need to take care of some business."

He walked past Sherlock, past the living room, and into his bedroom. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it. The groceries were still on the counter, but he couldn't be out there any longer right now. God, at this rate Sherlock would know in less than a day.

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><p>Sherlock was on his best behavior the next day. John was trying to pretend the previous night's meeting hadn't happened, and Sherlock was doing his best to try and pretend to be completely normal. He had put the groceries away the night before when John had not reemerged from his room. Well, he'd tried to at least. While Sherlock was a great detective, housekeeping was not one of his skills, which was evident when John found the peanut butter and honey in the bread box and the bread sitting on top. At least Sherlock knew which things belonged in the fridge and which belonged in the cupboards.<p>

The next morning, John was due at the clinic for a double shift at about ten, but he was up and ready three hours early. Part of him had actually thought Sherlock would still be sleeping, even though nothing about Sherlock seemed normal in the least.

John slipped out of his room quietly and frowned at how the kitchen light was still on. Sherlock must have left it on after putting away the shopping. He grabbed a bagel and was about to put it in the toaster when Sherlock's door opened and he could literally feel Sherlock noticing him.

"Oh, John, you're up early," Sherlock said. At least he sounded groggy.

"Yeah. Early shift. Gotta run. I'll see you tonight," John said, gripping his cold bagel and grabbing his bag. He made for the door while Sherlock stood bemused.

"Wait. About last night- John," but then the door swung shut behind the med student and he heard no more.

Maybe it was rude. Maybe it was petty and childish. Maybe, but John was safe for now, so he'd deal with the consequences later. Right now he had to figure out how to occupy himself for three hours until his shift started. John walked toward the bus while he looked down at his bagel. He'd never been one for uncooked bagels, but he also didn't want to carry this all the way to work. He slowly bit into the cool bread and frowned. It tasted like disappointment.

John wasn't disappointed in the bagel. He wasn't disappointed in Sherlock. He wasn't even disappointed with his three hour break before work. He was disappointed in himself. He'd let his emotions get ahead of him last night and then let them carry him off this morning as well. He'd been tactless and tasteless. He'd run like a coward. Yes, he could always handle it later, but somehow the churning in his chest said he should have done it now.

With a deep breath, John tried to console himself. He'd missed his chance this morning already. He should let it go, move on. He'd speak with Sherlock this evening. They would have a good chat to clear the air… and so long as John remembered to lock his door every night, everything would be fine.

God, but it being Sherlock would only make things worse.

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><p>"So… I'm all set?"<p>

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm alright now? I can go home cured?"

John shook his head a little to bring himself down from space. He smiled apologetically at the beautiful woman sitting in front of him and nodded.

"Yes. Yes, of course. You're completely healed up," John said. Sarah stood up from her chair and smiled. John couldn't help but admire her looks. She was average, mostly, but he was making a point to notice the beauty in her. He refused to admit it had anything at all to do with Sherlock.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," Sarah said, grabbing her purse. She paused there and frowned nervously down at her hands. "So what are your plans for tonight?"

John sighed and rubbed his right temple. "I have to have a serious discussion. Someone just moved in with me, and we had a bit of a misunderstanding last night."

"Oh? About what?" Sarah asked while she pulled on her gloves for the chill outside. She was pretending not to care, but her eyes kept drifting over John inquisitively.

"Um… There was an issue with personal space… sort of," John said, dancing around the real issue. He really didn't want to get into this subject right now. He wasn't even around Sherlock, and the man was invading his conversations. Was Sarah wearing perfume?

"Oh. Well…," Sarah began but tapered off. John frowned curiously and then something clicked in his mind.

"Oh no!" he exclaimed. "Not like that. No no. It's my new roommate. He's got no personal boundaries."

"Oh!" Sarah blushed, a sure sign that John had guessed correctly as to where her mind had gone. Was it a bad sign that he caught it so quickly? Was his mind going there as well? He wouldn't look into it. Instead he shook his head to cast the idea away and smiled apologetically.

"No, no. I'm unattached. You uh… You want to grab a drink sometime? Maybe tomorrow night?" John asked, nervously rubbing the back of his left arm.

Sarah beamed. "Yeah, sure. Sounds great. I'm free about eight. Is that alright?"

"Perfect." John clapped his hands together and smiled wider.

With a bit of a nervous goodbye they parted, and John leaned heavily on the room's counter afterward. He'd just asked someone out. More than that, she'd accepted. What was it 'they' always said about once in a lifetime chances? Oh right. They only come around once. This was John's chance to finally get a girlfriend and to stop worrying about Sherlock. Gah, and there he went again, intervening on John's thoughts. God, even in John's mind, he couldn't escape the annoying rudeness.

Which reminded him – he really did need to decide how he was going to clear all this up with Sherlock. He needed to lay down firm boundaries or this would all be a huge disaster by the end of the first week. Firm boundaries. Clear the air. Firm boundaries. Clear the air. He just had to keep those two goals in his mind. And try as he might, he could think of little else all day at work. He was so nervous on the ride home that he almost wished he had another disappointment bagel.

John stepped off the bus, looking over a piece of paper with ideas on how to start this conversation. He'd written it between patients and on the ride home. He hated every bit of pen or pencil on it. None of it worked well, and he doubted it would work any better on someone like Sherlock.

With a deep breath, John headed up to his apartment, dumping the paper in a bin on the way up. The apartment was surprisingly dark and quiet when he walked in. In fact, he almost thought he was home alone, that Sherlock had gone out, but when he flipped on the lights he saw Sherlock easily.

The well off detective was not very well. He was laying on the couch, holding his arm and mouth open like a constant sigh. His eyes were open and moving about the ceiling like he was watching a movie. Around his arm was a string of rubber, and John didn't look past the needle dropped on the carpet beside the couch.

"Sherlock," John scolded, walking over.

"If it isn't mister horny pants," Sherlock greeted in a much more chipper tone than ever before, although he somehow sounded strangely bitter.

"You can't lay on my couch and get high, Sherlock," John said, bending down to grab the needle. Sherlock's hand snapped out and caught his wrist just before his fingers could touch it. He was surprisingly accurate.

"Why not? It helps me think," Sherlock said. His eyes were partly out of focus, but he stared at John as though he had the vision of a hawk. "Maybe you should try it sometime. Clear that head of yours."

"No. I don't think so," John said. He shook his head and tried to pull out of Sherlock's grip, but it was useless. "Sherlock, let go. That hurts."

"Don't touch my needles," Sherlock partially hissed. He released John's wrist and dropped his head back into the couch pillow, sinking into the hold of his high once more. In fact, he hardly seemed to notice John was there anymore as the pre-med student stared disapprovingly and then exited to his room.

Damn. John had hoped to have a smooth conversation tonight, but Sherlock was too high to care. One thing was certain, though. Sherlock had definitely caught John's emotions from last night. 'Horny pants?' Was Sherlock eight years old? Still, this meant Sherlock would have the wrong idea for another few days. Tomorrow night John had a date with Sarah, and then classes started up again. Great timing, World.


End file.
